Everything is Alright
by Mist Over Water
Summary: Nobody knows that England and America have become a couple, however, America wants to take the leap to become 'lovers'. NON-CON & INSANITY. USUK.


**Everything is Alright  
**Mist Over Water

* * *

**TW: Non-con and insanity**

* * *

My boss does not know it yet, but England and I are lovers.

* * *

The rain is pouring now. The water is running down the pane, they are all I can focus on. They remind me of my lover, the one with the slim body, the one with the dusty blond hair, the one with the green eyes. I always wondered about his eyes. Why they were so green, the country that he represents is also covered by green when we fly over on airplanes, but whenever we are walking about his land, the mist of fumes is like a thick blanket that traps us and chokes us. This is not the Great Britain that is portrayed in literature of his people, of anyone.

The rain reminds me of him. My heart stops and my throat closes, and it becomes more difficult to breathe; sadness. I try not to let myself feel that emotion too much, but at times like this it is too difficult not to. A part of me says that he does not love me; another part of me says that that's complete bullshit. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me, the way he loves me… It's obvious. He adores me, worships me, I'd even go so far to say. His small smiles and flushed face whenever he talks with me, the way he treats me—almost as if he hates me!

He is who I am waiting for as I watch the rain.

He is with the person he says he hates as I sit in the cold room; the material of the chair does not feel as good as it used to. The leather feels course and the seat in general is not as comfortable. It leaves an ache in my back, and the pain in my back is making my heart throb. It feels as though I cannot breathe, and feels as though my heart is freezing over, as if it is going to be stopping at any moment. Canada tells me that I will be fine, that I love England so much, but that I need to be careful. That I might scare him off… But he loves me, so I don't see what I have to worry about? We are lovers, and so I can't scare him away, he's already promised to be with me till the end of time.

There is a flash of lightning outside, and the rain is falling harder than before. I want to call him, but he is out with his boss, some celebration to do with the Queen. I tell him that she is a useless attribute to his identity, but he doesn't listen. He goes red, and there is a strange look in his eye. France tells me that its anger, because the monarchy has been around since he has, and that to insult whoever is on the throne (when really, they don't sit on the throne all day, so the whole idea of a king or queen is built on lies) is to insult him. But I don't believe it. I just think that he's angry because he knows that I'm right.

He never did like admitting it to me.

The clock strikes midnight, and there is a chiming from somewhere in the house where I wait for him.

* * *

England's boss does not know it yet, but England and I are lovers.

* * *

The door is flung open in the first hour of the new day, I had been dozing, and the sudden rush of cold air and the noise of the wind rushing inside the house is enough to wake me. He stares at me, the coldness and the white of his face brought about by the cold air, as is his trembling. He stares at me, his eyes going from shocked to wide as his mouth opens to yell at me. But words are not what I get, he lets out a scream; something tells me that he is excited to see me, but another part of me notices the fear in his eyes.

I ignore that part of my brain that tells that England is scared, why should he be? I did not tell him that I was waiting at his home, so that was the reason that he looks so worried, the usual small crinkle between his eyebrows (which are too big, but that I would talk to him about at a later date). But I can tell that he is worrying because I am up so late. Even though we are lovers, he cannot forget the fact that he was my father figure, my big brother; it's a place that we don't like talking about, but it is something that we can't deny. He looks after me, and I love him just as much.

But then there is the fact that we've never physically shown our love for one another.

As he stands there now, I realise how beautiful he is. How pretty, how amazing he looks in such a vulnerable state where he can barely stand by himself and his balancing revolves around the door frame; straight away I know that he is drunk. Drunk enough to let his barriers down (the barriers that have been keeping us from touching one another); France told me that it hurts. The first time being penetrated really, really hurts. And I know that when you've been drinking the pain isn't as bad. At any way, France told me that England isn't a virgin… It's just been a while since he had been with another man; especially bottoming. But that means that it will still be painful for him. I don't believe him. I think that England is a virgin, but I'm anxious to change that fact.

This is why I decide that our first time will be tonight.

England is scared, I know that, because when I take his hand and kiss him gently on the lips, he tries to pull away; but when I push him to the wall and begin feeling over the skin underneath his clothes, he cannot do anything. His stomach is flat, no muscles… Nothing. His mouth is smooth, and I can taste the strange concoction of what he had been drinking over the night. Gin, whiskey, rum, Coke… Things that I don't want him drinking, but am thankful that he did to allow me to do this. His hands are on my chest, forceful fingers feeling over the muscles that make up my being, and I smirk into our kiss. It has been a while, obviously. His tongue is doing nothing back, just moving back into his mouth, trying to tempt me into moving in further.

I do what he wants; I love him, why would I not give him the passion that he deserves?

The feel of his tongue on my own is tantalizing, I cannot stop stroking it with mine, tangling them together basically. It feels as though, if mine was longer, I would have held him there together, so we could feel each other's body heat together forever, feel the rise and fall of each other's breathing in our chests and in our stomachs. His is faster, and he makes a small whine with each exhale. He's breathing through his mouth, so I guess that this is his first time doing this as well. He's muttering words, I know he is enjoying it, he's telling me

(_no america please no please stop i dont want this_)

that he enjoys it, so I push him against the wall harder; I let him know that the feeling is mutual by pushing my hips, my hardening sex against his. I can't feel his yet, but I have to remember that he is older. It takes a while longer for the older countries to get hard, right? I pull away from the kiss as the breath hitches in my throat at the external stimulation through my pants. He's crying, and I kiss away his tears, trying to tell him that everything will be alright through the muttering, small whispers against his lips and skin over his neck as he whimpers. I guess that means he likes it, I tease the skin some more with my teeth, before biting down hard enough to draw blood and suck. I know that I have to mark him. He replies in the way I expect him to

(_america please stop and think of what youre doing america please please stop that hurts_)

he shows me that he wants more by arching his back. With nimble fingers, I begin unbuttoning his shirt (the shirts he wears are simply too formal to be just sitting around in, but I'll talk to him about that later), but it gives me a reason to feel his sides, they feel concave almost like a woman's, but he's so much better than any woman. He tells me, I think as I begin to feel down his arms and pushing the shirt off and onto the floor finally, that I should find myself a lady. Whether country or human, he talks about not putting my affection so much on him, but I can't help it. I love him. He loves me.

* * *

The other nations do not know yet, but England and I are lovers.

* * *

Seeing him in this state, with white tracks of water falling from his face as his frame shakes, his chest rising and falling… I realise I cannot wait. I won't make it to the bed, and that I'll have him. His nipples are like little imperfections, but flat at the moment, and so I arch by head down, I feel his hands on my head, trying to push me nearer, and I go with them and lick his nipple, getting them nice and wet so that when I pull away, it gets harder with the cold air hitting it. It works, allowing me to latch onto it, and sucking like a nursing child, biting ever so gently, not wanting to hurt him. He gasps, he likes it, I smile. Doing it harder and harder, his grip on my hair is tightening.

As I reach down to unbutton his pants, I notice that he's still not hard, while my own cock is standing to attention, is straining against the cloth, he can probably feel it against his hip. I make sure he knows, by rubbing against him, rutting desperately, trying to get the feeling of friction. Wanting—_needing_—more. He doesn't moan or writhe in passion or pleasure, he just stands, just his breathing getting more erratic; and the only sounds that I expected from love making are coming from me. Breaths and moans hitching in my throat, getting caught in my chest where I feel my heart might explode with affection for the man before me. Once the clothing—pants and undergarments—are on the floor, I let my hands fall to his backside, and feel over the flesh there.

The first thing I notice is that it's not as round and mouldable as I wished it to be, but that can soon be sorted. I can feed him some food, refuse to let him out of the bed, and he'll love me for making him more desirable, and when he's more desirable to me, our love making through the night, kisses through the day and whispers of love will make him happy—so, _so_ happy. I pick him up, and he wraps his arms around my neck; his legs go around my waist so I can carry him, continue the kiss and tease the crease of his ass, he pulls away, and I know straight away from his moans

(_think what youre doing america you dont want this im your big brother we arent cant do this its so wrong please_)

that he cannot wait, and I think back to all the movies and films from the internet I had watched as we stumble onto the nearest soft surface (the couch, I think). I apologise to him that this might be unattractive, disgusting even before spitting on my hand. I frown as I look down between his legs (he's laying down now), and see that he still isn't hard, whilst my own member is aching at the thought of being inside him. I push his legs apart, and my touch must bring sparks of pleasure down his spine because he cries out, but the act of doing this means I can now see where I am going to be entering. I stare at his entrance, the small hole that will bring us close together, closer than we can imagine, as I spread the saliva on my shaft and hold the base of my penis to guide it inside. He cries out in pleasure, putting his hands on my shoulders to pull me into him further. He's so tight that I feel like his body might never let mine go. I feel our bodies finally meet, my crotch and his ass cheeks, and I realise with a small groan that we are finally making love.

* * *

England does not know it yet, but he and I are lovers.

* * *

(_AMERICA STOP YOURE DOING IT WRONG THAT HURTS PULL OUT_)

I keep moving, pushing back and forth; slowly at first, the videos I have seen build up the momentum. He is so much tighter than I could have ever imagined, and I hope that he keeps me there forever so that we could become part of each other. There would be no England without America, no America without England… Two nations joining together out of utter devotion for one another, that way he would never have to worry about threats again. England would become my fifty-first state, the only state that would not be a physical part of me; instead he would look to me for guidance. No move he makes I would be unaware of.

He would worship me.

His pale skin will surely have bruises from my fingers later on as I hold onto his hips, keeping him still so I can move into him harder and faster. The walls of his insides feel like they are being pulled apart by me, moving away to make room for my girth. His face is red when I look up to him, and although I cannot feel it, I guess I am hitting his prostate with each thrust into him as his mouth hangs open in a silent cry (I remember being told that the g-spot makes people react differently. That some people make a lot of noise, but others keep quiet). The little sobs of pleasure that he releases from his throat arouse me further, our skin slapping together as the movements grow harder. The friction from inside him hurts me, but for some reason I cannot help but like it.

(_america ill do anything you want just please oh my fucking god get stop STOP_)

I try to focus on what makes him feel good, but no matter what I do, his facial expressions does not change, he continues to scrunch his face up. I move to bite on his neck, to suck and bring the blood to the surface of his skin, to make sure that whomever saw his neck for a while later would be sure that he belonged to me; the mark would fit my mouth perfectly. His pure and perfect skin being flawed by my actions, movements of love; love filled my eyes, and nothing more as I felt myself coming closer to release, and I told him that. I gave him soft whispers of love throughout, not wanting him to forget just how I felt, and how good his life would be now that we had finally made love.

The moment is ours and ours alone. The universe disappears in the minutes that pass, the rain that had been bothering me a while beforehand has either stopped altogether or I am so caught up in the little planet that this room seems to contain that my sense are dull to it. All that fills my ears are the soft moans of pleasure and England's breathing. The harsh breaths that he lets out whenever I harshly slide into him. That almost velvety feeling that I feel so honoured to have the privilege of being the first to have felt it. The way I can almost sheath myself into him and be comfortable… I think that for a moment, we may have been made for one another. Just as manufacturing builds for certain items to be placed perfectly into another; England and I were always meant to be in this situation.

I feel my cheeks heat up as the tightening in my testicles is released, and the cum rushes deep into England; I notice that he had not ejaculated, but the thought of how painful being penetrated must be makes me understand the fact that he might have not gotten hard, but the feeling of his prostate being struck would have caused pleasure for him. At least he felt good, and at least I managed to draw those noises from him, I kiss his lips gently and whisper against them that the next time will be better. That next time I'll pull out all the tricks I have seen from movies and the act of making love will be so vomit-inducing sweet that neither of us will ever need another.

His lips taste salty. When I look to his face properly, to examine his features, it becomes apparent that he is quivering. His frame heaving with heavy sobs as he tries to tell me something, and I frown, trying to distinguish what he's saying. I try to tell him I can't understand, but his weeping (or wailing, depending on which way you decide to hear it) only gets worse, and I manage to make out that we are thinking the same thing

(_you monster how dare you do this why do you love me so much i hate you we had an agreement america get the fuck off me and never look at me again i trusted you and i know you love me but i have never loved you more than a brother how could you do something like this to me i thought you might have been able to control yourself_)

that responsibilities of being representatives stop us from being together sometimes and our relationship would never work from being too busy or just the general stress. There's also the case of our bosses not wanting us to enter a romantic relationship for fears of what would happen to political relationships if personal ones get involved. It upsets and angers me; neither of us chose this role, and yet we both know that we love each other to death. The way he looks up to me now… I realise that we have to find a way to be together forever. But being married is prohibited. We cannot marry other nations unless it is for reasons to do with our selfish bosses.

I look to the fireplace nearby, and realise what I have to do.

I stand. England does not move, but only whimpers, I see him from the corner of my eye move his hand to his backside to feel over his small entrance, trying to see what damage has been made, and only feels the sperm trickling out of him, and beginning to stain the sofa. I grab the poker which sits in the stand by the fire which is beginning to dwindle down into ash, and turn back toward him. He is staring at his fingers, which are stained a beautiful white and red combination, and his bottom lip quivers pathetically.

At that face, I know that he cannot go on living without me, and so while he is distracted, I raise the poker and with the strength that I had been gifted with, pierce a hole through his chest, where his heart is located, and carry it on through until I hit the sofa on the other side of his body. The blood pools around him, and I watch his face soften with a smile. I know that we can be together forever now. No external force can stop us, and I revel in the fact as I lay with him now, keeping his cold body warm with my own heat.

* * *

**Basic line is this was inspired by Robert Browning's 'Porphyria's Lover', which is mainly about obsession and love, I honestly would recommend reading that before reading this. Also there were to narrative things I wanted to try out and this was my experiment…**

**The main point of doing this particular idea was to also practice unreliable narrators; basically some of what America tells the reader is true, whilst other parts are a lie. Have fun trying to figure that one out ;) I'm also a big fan of Stephen King so the (****_america you son of a bitch_****) was greatly inspired by that.**

**(also maybe one day I can write a happy USUK fanfiction ahahAHAHA nope.)**


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